Ральф Эмерсон – The Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson / Стихотворения (страница 95)
Ни струн рояльных звон
Ток дикой крови не родят
В ключе, что потаён.
Бард-чародей,
Груб, в струны грянет, нет сильней,
Словно молот, булава;
Возьми те возврати
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Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin’s blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned flood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs’ cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
‘Pass in, pass in,’ the angels say,
‘In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise.’
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song’s sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin’s mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled, —
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mould the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall not seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
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Гром искусный, выдаст тот
Тайны солнца на пути,
Огнь, каким светило бьёт178.
Мерлин, словно рок, разит,
Лес такой рождает тон,
Когда бьётся сук о сук;
В нём слышны удушье, стон
Речки, льдом пленённой вдруг; 
